Two Fights
by WindowChild
Summary: A series of drabbles, concerning the night of the battle.
1. Two Fights

That night of the battle, there were two fights fought. Two scores were settled, even if it seemed like one on the surface.

Harry fought Voldemort. But really, it was only just the two of them. To the rest of the Wizarding World – the students of Hogwarts, especially – he was only a figure. He stood for evil, and for the sorrow that had hindered their lives so heavily. Really though, that's all he was: a black cloak, representing the mountain they had to tear apart, stone by stone. But he was untouchable, only Harry's to fight.

The others' battle was broader, and just as personal as the war between The Boy Who Lived and The Dark Lord. Their animosity was all for the death eaters. Bottled up and shaken till it bubbled, their hatred was for the masked magicians who had ruined their lives, year by year. Voldemort was their leader, yes, but he was not the one who had killed their friends and relatives. Sure, they understood that it was his fault, but that wasn't the point. They couldn't fight a face. They couldn't put their bitter, broken hearts into it if it was only one man. One man who they'd never met, regardless of his notorious resume of havoc.

So there were two fights that night. Two battles that _needed_ to be won, if only to save their precious world. This was personal. The Death Eaters, Voldemort – it didn't matter. All that they knew was that this needed to be done. And since it cut so deeply, every curse's repercussions too vast to eyeball, they could do it. Even as the bodies continued to fall, each death harboring a little more anguish than the last, there was maybe a little bit of hope in the breathless way they kept on fighting.


	2. Neville

There was something artistic about the way they fought, lined up in perfect formation.

They were sixth years, Ravenclaws, and Neville didn't know one of them by name. But he recognized their faces, once scrunched and scared, now hardened in concentration. They'd been taught well, somehow, in spite of everything.

Swish, flick. He remembered when he had trouble with the movement. He remembered when he had trouble with _all _wand work. As they said though, it was hit or miss. You learned from experience, which is exactly what Neville had done.

Adrenaline hit his spine as he thought of the DA, and he surged down the corridor.

"Terry, behind you!" he shouted, unable to stop and see if they boy had heard him. There were some people on the floor below who seemed to need help.

He raced past the Room of Requirement, the sight of the place a comfort. It was theirs, but his most of all.

"Neville!"

The Gryffindor spun on his heal, proud of the way he did it without injury. It would have been so easy to fall and get hit by a curse; two years ago, he thought that's what might have happened.

"Who called my name?" he shouted, eyes darting across the Great Hall.

"Me!"

"Oliver?" He was surprised that the Keeper even knew his name; they had never spoken before.

"Come here! We need to move the body, so it doesn't get hit again."

Neville's stomach dropped five feet, sickness swimming around his ears. Whose body?

"His," Oliver said, with a sigh. He looked sad, in a general way, but not deeply affected. "I'm not sure who it is."

"That's Colin Creevey," Neville said, steeling his chest. Oh, God. He wasn't supposed to be there. "Alright, let's move him."

A glance behind him, gathering his bearings, and they lifted Colin into the air. He looked up at Oliver, who he had once thought of as an untouchable, Gryffindor god. They were the same height now, performing the same terrible action. Neville shut his eyes, ready to declare that this strange vindication for his childhood was not worth it.


	3. Lavender

There is so much red.

Like the Gryffindor robes, Lavender thinks. Her mind is fuzzy. Her head feels like it's burning, and she wants desperately for it to burst open sooner rather than later. Lying on the floor of the great hall, drenched in this sickly liquid, she is sure she'd dying.

She was once so pretty, so arrogant in her vanity. And now, as she drowns in all the red, she is a little bit sad. She will never be pretty again.

Her face is no longer human. One eye is swelled shut, but the other can see that her chin doesn't quite make a point anymore. The flesh on her arms is ripped apart. She must look savage, she thinks. She must look like a beast.

Shivering, somehow cold as her own blood burns her, she wants to die. She wants someone to use the Avada Kedavra on her, instead of letting her suffer this way.

"Please," she tries to call, but no one hears her. Her lungs are compressed together, past the ability of making any recognizable noise.

She knows why she always hated werewolves now. Why she was always afraid of Professor Lupin, after they learned the truth about him. Wolves bring pain and ugliness, and she feels this too sharply as her legs leak the terrible red onto the hall of the great floor.

She is in so much pain, but somehow she knows that it's just terrible enough not to kill her. Because death, she is pretty sure, would be better than this.


	4. Lucius

Lucius did not like feeling weak.

He did not like the tint it left in his skin, the stoop it set upon his spine. Darting through the Great Hall - a room that he'd once foolishly thought he would rule - he had never felt so hopeless.

Hopelessness was worse than weakness. Weakness he could not control, not really, but he felt a bitter incompetence about the inability to save his son. He could not remember the last time he'd cried, but he was nearly driven to tearsnow. There was a desperate quality in the way he and Narcissa ran, hand-in-hand, searching for Draco with all their might.

In the back of his minds, he was glad for the strength with which he tried. As all his values crumbled, as he realized that no matter what happened - no matter who won - he would lose, it was nice to know that there were two people whom he still loved. He fought the urge to tell Narcissa this, remind her of his devotion towards her. But he was, in the end, a coward, and could not say those three little words to his wife. "Mudblood" yes. "Blood traitor" yes. But "I love you" was far too difficult.

"Oh Lucius, I see him! I see him!" She broke from the feeble grasp of his hand, racing towards her son. Their son, but in this moment he was all hers. She did not hesitate to throw her arms around him, showering with kisses and tears and words about how thankful she was for his life. Lucius could do no such thing. He stayed back, he hated the world, and he wondered how the cowardice bit him when he wasn't looking.


End file.
